My Donna
by Phoebe Dynamite
Summary: The thoughts of Donna on a date night with Sam a few months into their marriage. Much better than described, I promise :


**My Donna**

I can still remember the first time I saw Sam Carmichael.

It hadn't started off as a great day. The coast had been struck by a fistful of rain the night before, pounding so loudly on the ancient roof of Sophia's tenement house that I had barely slept. When I woke in the morning I was out of sorts and the alignment in my back was thrown, thanks to that wretched old mattress I had insisted to that blessed old lady that I had no problem crashing on. I remember swearing when I saw that it was still raining out, even if the storm had calmed down to a semi-merciful drizzle. Huffing like the child I was, I pulled on my ragged old boots and headed out of my cramped little rented room. Before I made it out of the house, Sophia intercepted my angry stride and informed me that I had a phone call from my mother. Well, that certainly didn't help matters. Twenty minutes later, after enduring her endless, emotionless droning over how I had two more weeks before she was sending my uncles to come and get me and drag me back to Queens, I stomped in all of my angst out into the equally moody weather. I kicked at puddles as I held my arms over my head, mad that today of all days I had to go out and see the local club owner about the three-night gig he had promised the Dynamos and I. I was talking to myself when I rounded the corner onto the busy street that ran along the harbor, imagining yet again what I would say to Mother Dearest if I could strap her down and make her shut up and listen to me for a change. I wasn't looking where I was going. After all, I was angry and wet. And I was stomping. I was secretly really enjoying the chance to stomp around in my boots.

I felt like an ass when I bumped obnoxiously into a stranger, mumbling to myself like a nutcase, not paying attention to my own angry walk, but when I looked up through the thin sheets of rain to see his face, I about kicked myself. He was American. He was laughing.

And he was cute.

I remember everything I did with Sam. Our first conversation after I stammered a mortified apology for almost running him down was about Bad Company, the band advertised on the shirt he was wearing underneath of his crumpled leather coat. Our first date was to Sophia's nephew's restaurant, a little hole in the wall where I was so nervous I could barely swallow my lettuce leaves down. He was there for the first Donna and the Dynamos show in Greece, and it was after we had finished our set and had gotten out of our costumes that he and I kissed for the first time. He had me pressed back slightly into the door of the shitty back room we were granted for getting ready for the performance. I remembered he smelled like he had been out on the beach all day. His skin was warm and weathered, letting me know that he had indeed been outside for hours, taking advantage of the immaculate summer weather. When we broke apart, I was out of breath, stunned by the easy rhythm of his mouth against mine and the unexpected precision he exhibited when sliding his tongue past my teeth. He looked down into my eyes, searching them like he was just as surprised by the kiss's intensity as I was, and then he smiled with one side of his mouth.

"Well," he said after a moment, "I didn't come to Greece expecting to turn into a groupie."

I laugh now when I think about such a silly line, but I do so nostalgically. At the time that he said those words, I had felt like my stomach was leaking out of my toes. It was strange being so unnerved by a guy. Usually I could charm my way into any romantic situation I wanted. But Sam was different. Luckily, after that first kiss, it became easier to be myself. In no time at all I was less in awe of him and more comfortable being me, and that was when we fell in love.

Being with Sam has always been like walking outside to a perfect day. There's the trepidation that maybe it's all appearances, that maybe it's not really as sunny as it looks or that there might be a cold wind blowing through that can't be seen. But as soon as you walk out that door, there are no doubts. You are safe. You are warm. You are unquestionably happy to be right where you are.

I look down at my wedding band as I fasten my earrings through my lobes. I catch its reflection first, and the sight of it stops me. I smile. I am relieved that it didn't really take getting used to, being a Mrs. Somebody. I had been scared to death that after being alone so long I would react to cohabitating with a man like a dog trying to walk on its hind legs. The only real surprise came the morning after the wedding, when I woke wrapped up in a pair of strong, smooth arms. A jolt ran through my body as if I had woken up in a stranger's room. But when I looked down and saw Sam shift in his sleep, running his finger across his nose as he gurgled adorably, I was consumed by a tidal wave of elation. There was a sense that this was how I was always meant to wake up, like it was part of who I was. Being reunited in a bed with Sam was like being reattached to my missing limbs.

I'm thinking about how much I learned to love my once-lonely bed once Sam moved in when something on the vanity catches my attention. My lip quivers at the array of pictures of Sophie. I still miss her so sorely. I am fully aware that she is having a good time, she's completely safe, and that she misses me, too, but when I look into those big, happy eyes through a photograph, my heart snags, and the tear it creates is almost too much to bear. Sophie was all I had for so long. I think briefly of that carefree girl after Sam… and Bill… and Harry. I think of how I shook in that hospital gown as I waited to hear the life changing, terrifying news. My eyes drift to a faded picture of Sophie at two years old. Tears bead my lashes, but I blink them away and smile faintly. Warmth travels up to spread just beneath of surface of my skin. I had been so rightly scared shitless as I waited those nine months for her to arrive, but raising her was a joy I could have never expected nor ever repeat. Mothering her distracted me from my all-consuming heartache… most of the time. I look over at a picture of Sam, Sophie, and I from the wedding reception. I grin to myself, thinking how sometimes, even if I could not possibly admit it, I looked at my daughter as proof that Sam had even been there to begin with. After all, he had just vanished twenty-one years ago.

Just beside the reception photo is a newer shot of two young men with dark hair and light eyes. They're handsome boys, bearing some resemblance to their defined featured father, but there are unmistakable traces of someone else in their bright, clear faces.

I still don't know what she looks like.

I shake my head and go back to putting on my jewelry. I don't know if I'll ever be fully comfortable talking or even thinking about the first Mrs. Carmichael. There's a strange sense of guilt attached to the thought of her. I was the other woman. I shudder now thinking about it, which seems a little silly, because I was the one who got jilted. He left me to go back and marry her. They had a family and a home together. I've said this to Sam before, but he was quick to remind me that I wasn't the only one given the short end of the stick. He had come back for me, but I had already "moved on", in defiant, determined Donna fashion.

I stand up like I'm in a hurry, even though I'm not. I do it as if to walk away from an actual situation existing outside of my head. I don't like to think about the harsh spots in my past with Sam, even though they led to this very moment, to every circumstance that has made me his wife and he my husband. My heart returns with a weightless flutter to his wedding toast as I turn and look out at the quarter moon resting up in the horizon-less night sky: _"Once I lost my way when something good had just begun. Lesson learned, it's history when all is said and done."_

Pressing my palms into my chest, I shut my eyes for the briefest moment as I relive that moment. We were both guilty, and so we had decided to move past it. Four months to the day had passed since he had made that toast and we had somehow upheld our promise. We wasted no time rehashing any of the bad. I throw a glance over at the bed and give a sly chuckle. I fill with a certain steely pride. Oh no, we had wasted no time.

A knock on the doorframe startles me. I hear Sam's light laughter at my reaction; it's the exact same chortle that got to me all those years ago when a disgruntled club singer bumped into him on his way to the drugstore. I look up now and I don't see that wooly beard or long mane of shiny hair. But it's the same suave smile. It's the same set of spell-casting eyes.

"You ready?" he asks me.

I nod, grabbing my clutch from the foot of the unmade bed as I walk towards him. In one quick moment at the door, we survey each other and simultaneously approve of what we see. He's wearing a pressed white button down and charcoal jeans, a simple looks that he manages to absolutely kill every time. I always tell him that island life agrees with him much more than it ever did with me – within a matter of days after moving in, he was tan and refreshed-looking, while I remained as pale and harried as ever. Now he smiles wide and leans forward to kiss my cheek; as he does, I'm drowned in a devastating of wave of cologne, so sweet-smelling but masculine that my knees are instantly weakened.

"You look beautiful, babe," he tells me as he shuts the door behind us.

"Thanks," I say, giving the small of his back a tender squeeze. "You don't clean up too badly yourself."

"I do what I can." He grabs hold of my hand and leads me down the stairs. We step out into a night that is mercifully warm. The breeze is slight and the sky is freckled with an entire jewelry case of stars. Both Sam and I give them a reverent look before we head down to the truck. He says a phrase oft spoken on the prettiest of nights on the island, one that makes me smile like a giddy girl when I hear it.

"Can't get a night like this in New York." He takes a deep breath and turns to me, a glimmer all too similar to the starlight dancing in his eyes. "Shall we?"

I contain my excitement as we walk the steep pathway away from the hotel down to the entranceway, where my old reliable truck is parked. Sam fought with me to get the beat-up thing traded in for a newer model, but I refused to budge on the issue. As he opens the door of it for me now, though, I almost wish that I had agreed to an upgrade. I love my truck, but it doesn't exactly spell out glamorous mode of date night transportation. I tell myself it's not important. Sam, looking so handsome after his long day of working for me (yes, I revel in saying so), fastens himself in and revs the archaic engine. He quickly learned to love driving my truck, and he always manages to make our rides together entertaining.

The air is cooler as we speed along the mountain, en route to the docks. Sam drums his fingers against the steering wheel, the wind whipping his hair about as he turns to me.

"I can't believe it took you as much convincing as it did to get you to go out tonight," he remarks.

"We have a lot of work," I say with a shrug. It's a lame excuse and Sam knows it, but it's the only thing I know to say. For fifteen years the Villa _was_ my date. It got all of my time. It feels weird to now split my devotion between my hotel and its designer, but I don't exactly mind it. I know better than anyone else that your work, no matter how much you put into it, can't love you back.

"Sheridan, what did I tell you about talking about work?" Sam says as we make a sharp turn around a little cliff face.

"You brought it up," I say, "and what did I tell you about calling me Sheridan?" I twist my ring habitually. "I just started getting used to being called Mrs. Carmichael."

Though Sam's eyes are on the road and not me, I can see how he smiles. His profile radiates like the quarter moon above. "You know that's my favorite. But Sheridan we've been using from day one."

My bloodstream tingles, sweet and calm against the rushing wind. "I know. I just don't like being reminded how devastatingly long I was single."

An unexpected sensation comes down on my left hand. Sam's soft but beaten skin positively kindles when it hits mine, and this time is no exception. His fingers tighten with just the right amount of pressure around mine. In the simple gesture, I feel overwhelmed with love.

He slams the old truck into park off the graveled path that leads to the dock. There are few lights to illuminate the walk down to the boats, but I've lived here so long I could do it blindfolded. Sam and I are still holding hands as we stroll across the old wooden planks together. The sensitive breeze picks up and blows a few strands of my pinned up hair out of place. It's frustrating, but I let it go. I know that the wind here will do whatever the hell it wants. I look up at Sam, whose expression tells me that he's thinking about something he's planned. It's a determined look, but nonetheless cute. I can't help thinking about how I always explained to Sophie that her father had just "gone with the wind" before I knew she was coming. It was more or less the truth.

The ferries stopped running hours ago, so I know without it having to be spoken that Sam intends to row us over the mainland himself. When I spot the small craft bobbing up and down in the blackness of the water, I feel a deep-stemming pulse of excitement. My mind longs to travel back to the memories of our first night together, when he rowed me to Kalokairi, but my heart keeps itself present. Sam and I look at each other with mirrored smiles. Without a word, he helps me onto the boat.

On the trip to the well-lit mainland, I do manage to keep myself in the present moment, which is an amazing fete for a woman who has spent the last twenty years only seeing and hearing and breathing in Sam Carmichael through a gauzy, torn veil of memories. But even though I talk to Sam about little things, like the last letter I got from Soph from Barcelona, and we laugh at how out of practice he is at rowing, I cannot deny the symmetry of the moment. The same love that flourished so strongly twenty-one years ago took us in this same manner across these waters, and I feel how it's even stronger now, better, matured, much more complete. There is no drama that accompanies the young, wild heart in all its endeavors, most potently in love. Now there is fulfillment and peace. Now, when I look over at him and he winks at me, the wind tousling his hair boyishly, my love is not reckless. It is not as fragile as it was. I know with a certainty I could have never envisioned when he first brought me to Kalokairi that my heart is endurable and our love is everlasting. I know that I can survive and still emerge happy on the other side of everything.

The mainland city I escaped to with my girlfriends back when I was a kid used to be something of a relic, but now, thanks to tourism, it has become a chic place. I admit to Sam that the city's sleek facelift might have depressed me under different circumstances, but being on a very adult date with my very adult husband changes my outlook. I think of him in New York, of the amazing nightlife and culture he left behind, and I am relieved that the New World shed some of its cosmopolitan light on this rocky, beautiful outcropping of Greece. A whole row of relaxed but classy restaurants and taverns fill the street running along the water, spilling their light and merriment out of a confinement that is very not Greek. This, I notice with a smile to myself, is something that renovations could not take away, and I am more than glad about it.

"Where are we going?" I ask Sam as he leads me down the illuminated avenue.

"A new place," he answers, tenderly rubbing the skin between my thumb and pointer finger with his own thumb. "You'll love it. I promise."

I smile wide and lean into his thick shoulder. Ever since our impromptu wedding, whenever Sam promises something, I am freshly surprised and delighted at his sincerity.

We turn a couple narrow corners, hearing traditional music here, catching the saturated laughter of young lovers there. Once or twice Sam looks down at me and smiles; he doesn't say anything, and he doesn't have to. I see more in his eyes than I could ever try to describe or understand. He leans in and kisses my temple and brushes loose strands of my hair back. The mingled scents of his cologne and his skin drown me.

I am a little distracted, but I soon notice that this little neighborhood he has led me to is more old fashioned than the one surrounding the harbor. With excitement, I recognize the buildings we pass, shaded by quaint covers of darkness. I read rudimentary, ancient signs in Greek that my stir my memory. And then from down the old thoroughfare I spot something that instantly but gently slams me back into the past, into that first rainy morning that I met Sam.

I stop in the middle of the road as I fill from toe to tip with awe. "I can't believe Sophia's place is still here."

"I can't believe you really haven't been back here since Sophie was five," Sam says. "Isn't it exactly the same?"

"It really is," I say, happy, astonished. I shake my head and stare at the old house like I would a revered king or emperor. "Is it still a tenement house?"

"More like a hostel. Come on." Sam pulls me closer to the building, and I can see he is getting more and more excited. I am still examining the old four-story house where I was served the best meals, heard the best stories, and fell asleep every night (or early morning) comfortable knowing that my old life, childhood, and mother were so far away that no one and nothing could control me ever again. Now the past seeps into me, so warm its like wine, so sensual that it seems to physically caress me. I look up into the dark window that, for a time, belonged to me alone and then, a little later on, Sophie and I. I can almost see myself before the gray hair and wrinkles, full of vigor and passion that my husband reminds me constantly I still have burning brightly within in me. I could never forget the morning after we got married, just before we reluctantly left our bedroom and joined the rest of our guests down in the courtyard, he grabbed my hand before I could walk out the door and said to me, "Donna Carmichael, you know what I woke up this morning and thought first off? Not that I was crazy. Not that I had made a mistake. Not even that I was the luckiest guy in the world, which I am. I thought, 'This woman is still on fire, all these years later, and now I get to burn right along with me. Thank God.'"

It turns out our destination is not Sophia's place, but a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant right across the alley. I can see at first glance that only trim, smiling locals occupy the dimly lit space. Some are seated outside, and when we approach, they lift their glasses in a friendly, welcoming way. Sam calls out, "Kalispera!" which means "good evening," and they handful of them return the greeting. I think that it is only in this moment that I realize that I am not working and the people I am surrounded by are not my employees or customers, but my peers, my fellow good time-seekers. I smile at them all to see my escalating happiness mirrored back at me; it feels stupendous. I am charged with a sense of camaraderie, fueled by belonging, some exclusivity of being here and happy and in love.

We seat ourselves outside, in a table amid all the others but still somehow feeling separate, private. There is no sign to indicate what the restaurant is called, but upon looking at the menu I see that is called Aion – eternity.

"You like it?" Sam asks hopefully.

I give the place another look. Every table holds a dying candle; the old iron-wrought chairs are laced with little red and purple flowers. Every plate of food I see looks and smells sensational. It is secluded but very much alive. And the sight of that old tenement house behind it all, like the satisfied spirit of my past watching over me on this night….

"It's wonderful," I say to Sam, taking his hand in mine. "It's exactly what I needed."

"Thought so."

Almost immediately we have wine in our glasses, sweet stuff that I know without having to be told that Sam selected himself for this occasion. I am afraid at first that I will not have anything to talk about but work, but as time passes I realize that the Villa is the absolute last thing I want to discuss tonight. We exchange little stories and fodder; he tells me jokes and I laugh loud and long. He urges me to get as much food as I want, more than what I possibly can eat, because, as he so delicately puts it, "a thicker woman makes a better lover."

It is an innocent little joke, and I start to laugh, ready to shoot something straight and narrow right back at him, but then, out of nowhere, she infiltrates my thoughts. Lorraine. Maybe it's because he hypothetically referenced a past sexual history. Instead of maybe even joking about Bill or Harry, I go silent, noticeable deflated. I can see from the look on Sam's face that he knows he made a mistake.

"Aw Don, what'd I say? Come on, I thought I was doing pretty well."

"You were, are." I shrugged and waved my arm, like swatting at an invisible fly, in an attempt to cover my feelings. "It's nothing really. Just a stupid thought."

I can see in the waning yellow of the candlelight that Sam is not just going to relent. I am slightly frustrated; before Sam came back, I was so much better at hiding how I really felt underneath it all. He made me more vulnerable, more exposed. I twisted the gold band on my finger. It had been a worthy trade-off.

"Donna," Sam says sort of sternly, lowering his head so that we are eye-level. "I don't understand. I didn't call you fat. I did the opposite. Was it the sex thing? Because you know you are a fantastic lover. Best I ever had."

It is a great compliment, but there is the undertone of comparison in there, the brief mention of a sexual past. I wince like it's a reflex. It's not that he has slept with other women. It's that, for the duration of a thirteen-year marriage, he slept with one woman in particular.

I could have vainly insisted that it was nothing again, or maybe even actually spoken up about something that was not even a real fear or concern. It was just a thought. About her. But instead, I looked into my husband's eyes and asked, "Sam… why me?"

He looked taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I mean… why me, Donna Sheridan, back then and twenty-one years later? I know it's a silly thing to ask after four months of being married, but I never really got a chance to ask." I offer him a small smile. "You proposed too fast."

Sam chuckles, seemingly in spite of himself, and looks down into the burgundy pool in the bottom of his wine glass. His silence gives me time to look at the contours of his aged face, how his years and experiences show so well in every wrinkle and mark. I suddenly wish I could sketch as well as him or Sophie. I wish I could draw that face that I love so much, be a part of its creation.

"You were the only girl," Sam says suddenly, "that ever made me feel challenged. Whenever I was with you back then, Donna, I just felt this impulse to be braver, more daring, more willing. When I was with you, I felt I had to love more – love _you_ more – because you deserved it, because you would not and could not take less."

As he speaks, he looks down into space, like he's reliving those old emotions from our younger years. But now he looks back up at me, and he smiles. It's the sly smile of a man who knows that he has me wrapped around his finger. I cannot help but grin knowingly back.

"We were always happy," he continues softly. "No matter what we were doing, we had the best time. That never faded away. I had never been with someone who made me feel the way you did, and in all the years that we were separated, I never met anyone who even remotely compared, so… I guess… I guess that's why when I got Sophie's invitation, there was no hesitation. And then when I saw you, I knew it wasn't all in my head. I still loved you as I did then." He leans across the table and takes my hand; his smile deepens. "And now, four months later, I love you even more."

I feel my eyes water but I will myself not to cry. I look down at my husband's hand, at the wedding ring I picked out for him a few days after the ceremony, and I instantly think of a hundred different memories. No one in particular stands out greater than the rest, but they're all there, in this warm mass that overcomes me, and I suddenly don't care at all about Lorraine. Not even a little bit. She's like some piece of wreckage floating out of orbit. And Sam… Sam is like my moon, shining so beautifully because of the light reflected from the sun. When I look at him, I see the landing place of all of my love and happiness and how it becomes him.

We have a wonderful, delicious dinner together, aware of the noise and lightness around us but not caring about it. Towards the end of the meal, as we finish off the rest of the wine, Sam points to something behind me and I turn to see a svelte Greek woman in a navy blue dress stand up from a table near the entrance to Aion. Two men sitting at her table smile over at me and then beginning playing instruments, one a guitar and the other a tambourine. The woman straightens her back, strikes an effortlessly sensual pose, and begins to sing. Before I can even process that she is singing in English one of my favorite songs from around the time I moved to Greece, Sam pulls my out of me chair and twirls me around. Laughing, I fall into his stride and let him lead me in a dance. Looking into his eyes, I do not take notice of all of the other couples that start dancing as well, but I do hear the music. The woman's voice is deep and lilting, and it surrounds the two of like plumes of smoke.

"_Oh, the last time that I saw you_

_You know you didn't say a word._

_And I knew, honey, as I looked into your eyes_

_That my feelings, Lord, they'd never been heard._

_Well, I'm talkin' to you about love._

_Did you hear me? I said love._

_Yeah, because it's got to be such a long, long, long way_

_From denyin', from denyin'."_

"Nice choice, going with one of my favorite breakup songs," I whisper with a husky chuckle in his ear.

I feel his hand creep down to the small of my back. I shiver under his strong touch. "I'd like to think of it as a little reminder to myself," he whispers back, his breath tickling my ear.

I don't question him further. I just move in perfect rhythm with my husband as the woman sings. I can feel the wine race through my blood, touched upon by the cool breezes coming in off the sea, and it seems as though the world has stopped for us tonight.

Sam's soft lips purse and trail from the corner of my mouth, across my jaw line, and down, oh so slowly, across my neck. I feel as if I have been set with sparks just beneath my skin. Everything in me tingles at his ghost-like kisses.

"Honey, this has been an incredible night and all," I breathe, concentrating on the stars above as his tongue briefly makes contact with my skin, "but I think that maybe – "

"We should get back," he says, leaning away from my face, his voice thick and his eyes glossy. I nod feverishly, suddenly wanting him, seeing that he desires me just as much. Like fiery teenagers, we pay quickly and run off down the street. I throw a quick glance at Sophia's old place, but I know that I do not need my past or my memories at the moment. After surviving solely on them for so long, I am fully prepared to only know and experience my present.

Once we get back to the hotel and our cozy little room, we are still so warm for each other, inseparable in our touches and caresses, but we calm down enough not to jump directly into bed. Instead we lie down together for a little while, staring up at the ceiling, not saying another, just breathing near each other. I press my face into the warmth of his neck, aroused but subdued. The feel of his fingers on my hipbone keeps me anchored to the quiet bliss of the moment.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice a crate of items that had not been there earlier in the day. "What's that?" I ask him, planting a soft kiss on his Adam's apple.

"That," he says, rolling over to look at it, "is the last of my stuff being shipped in from New York."

"You had even _more_ crap back there then you already had shipped? Babe, we have limited storage space here. It's an island, remember?"

Sam stands up and goes to the crate. "It was just some stuff my son found in the attic. It's only some old records."

I sit up, my interest piqued. "Records? Which ones?"

"Oh, some Hendrix," he says as he starts to skim through the faded vinyl, "Deep Purple, the Who, Bad Company" – he looks over and winks mischievously at me – "and some… Holy shit!"

"What? What is it?"

Smile beaming, Sam laughs as he pulls the record out of its sleeve. I cannot make it out what it is from the angle I'm at. "Oh, this is a good one. We have to play this."

"What is it?" I ask again, impatient like a child at Christmas, but he just ignores me and puts the old black disc in the dusty record player sitting in the corner of the room. The familiar scratch fills the room, followed by the sound of psychedelic guitars.

"It's the Hair soundtrack," Sam finally admits, smiling wider than ever as he comes towards me. "Don't you remember?"

Now I'm laughing, filled with a hot blast of nostalgia, because I do remember very well indeed. Sam and I used to listen to Hair constantly when we first met, particularly a happy little ditty called "My Donna." The sound of the song fills the room, forcing me to jump off the bed and move toward my husband, now doing a groovy little dance I cannot help but mimic. At the top of our lungs, like the youths we were when we first bonded over this song, we belt out the words.

"_Oh! Once upon a looking for Donna time,_

_There was a sixteen-year-old virgin!_

_Oh Donna! Oh, oh Donna! Oh, oh, oh!_

_Looking for my Donna!_

_I just got back from looking for Donna,_

_San Francisco, psychedelic urchin._

_Oh Donna! Oh, oh Donna! Oh, oh, oh!_

_Looking for my Donna!_

_Have you seen my sixteen-year-old tattooed woman?_

_Heard the story?_

_She got busted for her beauty, whoa, oh, oh, oh!_

_Oh, oh!_

_Once upon a looking for Donna time,_

_There was a sixteen-year-old virgin!_

_Oh Donna! Oh, oh Donna! Oh, oh, oh!_

_Looking for my Donna!"_

This is the man I married, the man dancing like an idiot and singing to me, and every day, in every way, I love him more and more.

* * *

A/N: I do not own the songs "My Donna" or "Farewell Song" by Janis Joplin, though I love them dearly. If anyone out there doesn't know the song from Hair, listen to it immediately. It's one of the most infectious things I've ever heard.

Reviews always appreciated :)


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